Page 104 of Trapped By the Maharaja
Sanjana turned sharply, her stomach sinking.
Sania Kolli stood a few paces away, draped in emerald silk that glittered under the midday sun. Diamonds flashed at herears as she smiled sweetly, the kind of smile sharpened into a blade.
“From hospital wards to hosting the prestigious royal charity event,” Sania said loudly enough for those nearby to hear, “quite the leap.”
A ripple of whispers swept through the crowd.
Sanjana’s grip tightened on the edge of her clutch.
Sania didn’t stop there. “Tell me, Dr. Shetty,” she continued sweetly, “what does one have to do to get such a… luck.”
Educators looked uncomfortable, while a few socialites leaned in, eager for spectacle.
Sanjana parted her lips to respond in a calm, measured yet determined way. But before a word could leave her mouth, a sudden roar tore through the air.
The sound of helicopter blades.
The crowd turned as one, shielding their faces against the gust of wind as a sleek black helicopter descended at the far end of the grounds. Dust rose up along with murmurs that grew louder and louder.
Sanjana lifted her hand against the sun, wondering who it was.
The helicopter door swung open.
She gasped softly in shock. Ram.
He stepped down from the helicopter, tall and commanding in his dark suit and sunglasses, his presence sending a ripple of silence across the grounds.
The organizers and guests hurried towards him. But he didn’t acknowledge them.
He removed his sunglasses and his eyes locked on her.
Sanjana’s breath caught, her pulse racing as the entire world seemed to fall away beneath the weight of his gaze.
The ruthless Devara Maharaja had arrived. And he was walking towards her.
She told herself to stand calmly and smile politely, but her hands trembled slightly against the silk of her saree.
When he reached her, the crowd shifted instinctively, giving him space. His gaze didn’t waver. “Sanjana,” he said, his deep voice low.
The sound of her name on his lips sent heat rushing to her cheeks, reminding her of the passion-filled nights when he called out her name in deep commands.
Before she could gather composure, his hand rested on her back in a steady, possessive grip. The crowd’s murmurs grew, but she felt only the heat of his palm anchoring her in place.
Her heartbeat thundered as he guided her forward. The excited murmurs filled the air, people moving aside as they walked in step.
Two of the organizers hurried toward them, their faces lit with surprise. One of them spoke quickly, bowing slightly in respect. “Your Highness, we didn’t expect you to attend the event today. It is an honor to have the Devara Maharaja join us.”
Ram gave a regal nod.
The murmurs in the crowd grew as guests greeted him. Educators, philanthropists, and socialites stepped forward with smiles, bowing their heads or pressing their palms together in greeting.
“Your Highness.”
“Maharaja Devara, an honor.”
Ram acknowledged them with the faintest nod. The reverence in their voices made her heart clench. This was his world, where power clung to him like a second skin, where respect wasn’t asked for but given instinctively.
And as his wife, the respect was extended to her automatically.
